Investigation of crimes don’t always go according to plan, nor does the perpetrator get either found or punished.
That was particularly true in my case. The murderer was very careful in not leaving any evidence behind, to the extent that the police could not rules out whether it was a male or a female.
At one stage the police thought I had murdered my own wife though how I could be on a train at the time of the murder was beyond me. I had witnesses and a cast-iron alibi.
The officer in charge was Detective Inspector Gabrielle Walters. She came to me on the day after the murder seeking answers to the usual questions when was the last time you saw your wife, did you argue, the neighbors reckon there were heated discussions the day before.
Routine was the word she used.
Her Sargeant was a surly piece of work whose intention was to get answers or, more likely, a confession by any or all means possible. I could sense the raging violence within him. Fortunately, common sense prevailed.
Over the course of the next few weeks, once I’d been cleared of committing the crime, Gabrielle made a point of keeping me informed of the progress.
After three months the updates were more sporadic, and when, for lack of progress, it became a cold case, communication ceased.
But it was not the last I saw of Gabrielle.
The shock of finding Vanessa was more devastating than the fact she was now gone, and those images lived on in the same nightmare that came to visit me every night when I closed my eyes.
For months I was barely functioning, to the extent I had all but lost my job, and quite a few friends, particularly those who were more attached to Vanessa rather than me.
They didn’t understand how it could affect me so much, and since it had not happened to them, my tart replies of ‘you wouldn’t understand’ were met with equally short retorts. Some questioned my sanity, even, for a time, so did I.
No one, it seemed, could understand what it was like, no one except Gabrielle.
She was by her own admission, damaged goods, having been the victim of a similar incident, a boyfriend who turned out to be a very bad boy. Her story varied only in she had been made to witness his execution. Her nightmare, in reliving that moment in time, was how she was still alive and, to this day, had no idea why she’d been spared.
It was a story she told me one night, some months after the investigation had been scaled down. I was still looking for the bottom of a bottle and an emotional mess. Perhaps it struck a resonance with her; she’d been there and managed to come out the other side.
What happened become our secret, a once-only night together that meant a great deal to me, and by mutual agreement, it was not spoken of again. It was as if she knew exactly what was required to set me on the path to recovery.
And it had.
Since then we saw each about once a month in a cafe. I had been surprised to hear from her again shortly after that eventful night when she called to set it up, ostensibly for her to provide me with any updates on the case, but perhaps we had, after that unspoken night, formed a closer bond than either of us wanted to admit.
We generally talked for hours over wine, then dinner and coffee. It took a while for me to realize that all she had was her work, personal relationships were nigh on impossible in a job that left little or no spare time for anything else.
She’d always said that if I had any questions or problems about the case, or if there was anything that might come to me that might be relevant, even after all this time, all I had to do was call her.
I wondered if this text message was in that category. I was certain it would interest the police and I had no doubt they could trace the message’s origin, but there was that tiny degree of doubt, whether or not I could trust her to tell me what the message meant.
I reached for the phone then put it back down again. I’d think about it and decide tomorrow.
50 photographs, 50 stories, of which there is one of the 50 below.
They all start with –
A picture paints … well, as many words as you like. For instance:
And, the story:
Have you ever watched your hopes and dreams simply just fly away?
Everything I thought I wanted and needed had just left in an aeroplane, and although I said I was not going to, i came to the airport to see the plane leave. Not the person on it, that would have been far too difficult and emotional, but perhaps it was symbolic, the end of one life and the start of another.
But no matter what I thought or felt, we had both come to the right decision. She needed the opportunity to spread her wings. It was probably not the best idea for her to apply for the job without telling me, but I understood her reasons.
She was in a rut. Though her job was a very good one, it was not as demanding as she had expected, particularly after the last promotion, but with it came resentment from others on her level, that she, the youngest of the group would get the position.
It was something that had been weighing down of her for the last three months, and if noticed it, the late nights, the moodiness, sometimes a flash of temper. I knew she had one, no one could have such red hair and not, but she had always kept it in check.
And, then there was us, together, and after seven years, it felt like we were going nowhere. Perhaps that was down to my lack of ambition, and though she never said it, lack of sophistication. It hadn’t been an issue, well, not until her last promotion, and the fact she had to entertain more, and frankly I felt like an embarrassment to her.
So, there it was, three days ago, the beginning of the weekend, and we had planned to go away for a few days and take stock. We both acknowledged we needed to talk, but it never seemed the right time.
It was then she said she had quit her job and found a new one. Starting the following Monday.
Ok, that took me by surprise, not so much that it something I sort of guessed might happen, but that she would just blurt it out.
I think that right then, at that moment, I could feel her frustration with everything around her.
What surprised her was my reaction. None.
I simply asked where who, and when.
A world-class newspaper, in New York, and she had to be there in a week.
A week.
It was all the time I had left with her.
I remember I just shrugged and asked if the planned weekend away was off.
She stood on the other side of the kitchen counter, hands around a cup of coffee she had just poured, and that one thing I remembered was the lone tear that ran down her cheek.
Is that all you want to know?
I did, yes, but we had lost that intimacy we used to have when she would have told me what was happening, and we would have brainstormed solutions. I might be a cabinet maker but I still had a brain, was what I overheard her tell a friend once.
There’s not much to ask, I said. You’ve been desperately unhappy and haven’t been able to hide it all that well, you have been under a lot of pressure trying to deal with a group of troglodytes, and you’ve been leaning on Bentley’s shoulder instead of mine, and I get it, he’s got more experience in that place, and the politics that go with it, and is still an ally.
Her immediate superior and instrumental in her getting the position, but unlike some men in his position he had not taken advantage of a situation like some men would. And even if she had made a move, which I doubted, that was not the sort of woman she was, he would have politely declined.
One of the very few happily married men in that organisation, so I heard.
So, she said, you’re not just a pretty face.
Par for the course for a cabinet maker whose university degree is in psychology. It doesn’t take rocket science to see what was happening to you. I just didn’t think it was my place to jump in unless you asked me, and when you didn’t, well, that told me everything I needed to know.
Yes, our relationship had a use by date, and it was in the next few days.
I was thinking, she said, that you might come with me, you can make cabinets anywhere.
I could, but I think the real problem wasn’t just the job. It was everything around her and going with her, that would just be a constant reminder of what had been holding her back. I didn’t want that for her and said so.
Then the only question left was, what do we do now?
Go shopping for suitcases. Bags to pack, and places to go.
Getting on the roller coaster is easy. On the beginning, it’s a slow easy ride, followed by the slow climb to the top. It’s much like some relationships, they start out easy, they require a little work to get to the next level, follows by the adrenaline rush when it all comes together.
What most people forget is that what comes down must go back up, and life is pretty much a roller coaster with highs and lows.
Our roller coaster had just come or of the final turn and we were braking so that it stops at the station.
There was no question of going with her to New York. Yes, I promised I’d come over and visit her, but that was a promise with crossed fingers behind my back. After a few months in t the new job the last thing shed want was a reminder of what she left behind. New friends new life.
We packed her bags, three out everything she didn’t want, a free trips to the op shop with stiff she knew others would like to have, and basically, by the time she was ready to go, there was nothing left of her in the apartment, or anywhere.
Her friends would be seeing her off at the airport, and that’s when I told her I was not coming, that moment the taxi arrived to take her away forever. I remember standing there, watching the taxi go. It was going to be, and was, as hard as it was to watch the plane leave.
So, there I was, finally staring at the blank sky, around me a dozen other plane spotters, a rather motley crew of plane enthusiasts.
Already that morning there’s been 6 different types of plane depart, and I could hear another winding up its engines for take-off.
People coming, people going.
Maybe I would go to New York in a couple of months, not to see her, but just see what the attraction was. Or maybe I would drop in, just to see how she was.
As one of my friends told me when I gave him the news, the future is never written in stone, and it’s about time you broadened your horizons.
It could have been anywhere in the world, she thought, but it wasn’t. It was in a city where if anything were to go wrong…
She sighed and came away from the window and looked around the room. It was quite large and expensively furnished. It was one of several she had been visiting in the last three months.
Quite elegant too, as the hotel had its origins dating back to before the revolution in 1917. At least, currently, there would not be a team of KGB agents somewhere in the basement monitoring everything that happened in the room.
There was no such thing as the KGB anymore, though there was an FSB, but such organisations were of no interest to her.
She was here to meet with Vladimir.
She smiled to herself when she thought of him, such an interesting man whose command of English was as good as her command of Russian, though she had not told him of that ability.
All her knew of her was that she was American, worked in the Embassy as a clerk, nothing important, who life both at work and at home was boring. Not that she had blurted that out the first tie she met, or even the second.
That first time, at a function in the Embassy, was a chance meeting, a catching of his eye as he looked around the room, looking, as he had told her later, for someone who might not be as boring as the function itself.
It was a celebration, honouring one of the Embassy officials on his service in Moscow, and the fact he was returning home after 10 years. She had been there one, and still hadn’t met all the staff.
They had talked, Vladimir knew a great deal about England, having been stationed there for a year or two, and had politely asked questions about where she lived, her family, and of course what her role was, all questions she fended off with an air of disinterested interest.
It fascinated him, as she knew it would, a sort of mental sparring as one would do with swords, if this was a fencing match.
They had said they might or might not meet again when the party was over, but she suspected there would be another opportunity. She knew the signs of a man who was interested in her, and Vladimir was interested.
The second time came in the form of an invitation to an art gallery, and a viewing of the works of a prominent Russian artist, an invitation she politely declined. After all, invitations issued to Embassy staff held all sorts of connotations, or so she was told by the Security officer when she told him.
Then, it went quiet for a month. There was a party at the American embassy and along with several other staff members, she was invited. She had not expected to meet Vladimir, but it was a pleasant surprise when she saw him, on the other side of the room, talking to several military men.
A pleasant afternoon ensued.
And it was no surprise that they kept running into each other at the various events on the diplomatic schedule.
By the fifth meeting, they were like old friends. She had broached the subject of being involved in a plutonic relationship with him with the head of security at the embassy. Normally for a member of her rank it would not be allowed, but in this instance it was.
She did not work in any sensitive areas, and, as the security officer had said, she might just happen upon something that might be useful. In that regard, she was to keep her eyes and ears open, and file a report each time she met him.
After that discussion she got the impression her superiors considered Vladimir more than just a casual visitor on the diplomatic circuit. She also formed the impression the he might consider her an ‘asset’, a word that had been used at the meeting with security and the ambassador.
It was where the word ‘spy’ popped into her head and sent a tingle down her spine. She was not a spy, but the thought of it, well, it would be fascinating to see what happened.
A Russian friend. That’s what she would call him.
And over time, that relationship blossomed, until, after a visit to the ballet, late and snowing, he invited her to his apartment not far from the ballet venue. It was like treading on thin ice, but after champagne and an introduction to caviar, she felt like a giddy schoolgirl.
Even so, she had made him promise that he remain on his best behaviour. It could have been very easy to fall under the spell of a perfect evening, but he promised, showed her to a separate bedroom, and after a brief kiss, their first, she did not see him until the next morning.
So, it began.
It was an interesting report she filed after that encounter, one where she had expected to be reprimanded.
She wasn’t.
It wasn’t until six weeks had passed when he asked her if she would like to take a trip to the country. It would involve staying in a hotel, that they would have separate rooms. When she reported the invitation, no objection was raised, only a caution; keep her wits about her.
Perhaps, she had thought, they were looking forward to a more extensive report. After all, her reports on the places, and the people, and the conversations she overheard, were no doubt entertaining reading for some.
But this visit was where the nature of the relationship changed, and it was one that she did not immediately report. She had realised at some point before the weekend away, that she had feelings for him, and it was not that he was pushing her in that direction or manipulating her in any way.
It was just one of those moments where, after a grand dinner, a lot of champagne, and delightful company, things happen. Standing at the door to her room, a lingering kiss, not intentional on her part, and it just happened.
And for not one moment did she believe she had been compromised, but for some reason she had not reported that subtle change in the relationship to the powers that be, and so far, no one had any inkling.
She took off her coat and placed it carefully of the back of one of the ornate chairs in the room. She stopped for a moment to look at a framed photograph on the wall, one representing Red Square.
Then, after a minute or two, she went to the mini bar and took out the bottle of champagne that had been left there for them, a treat arranged by Vladimir for each encounter.
There were two champagne flutes set aside on the bar, next to a bowl of fruit. She picked up the apple and thought how Eve must have felt in the garden of Eden, and the temptation.
Later perhaps, after…
She smiled at the thought and put the apple back.
A glance at her watch told her it was time for his arrival. It was if anything, the one trait she didn’t like, and that was his punctuality. A glance at the clock on the room wall was a minute slow.
The doorbell to the room rang, right on the appointed time.
She put the bottle down and walked over to the door.
There’s more writing to be done, but to get through nearly 70,000 words in 30 days is quite an achievement.
It’s been a battle, and time management has been shot to hell more than once.
There were days I honestly believed I’d get nothing done. I don’t know how people who have a day job could ever get much writing done at night.
I’m looking forward to a few days rest, and not have to face the word processor ready to input words.
As for how it will finish, the end is in sight, it may change but not substantially, and I will add a post in the next week to tell everyone what happened.
As for now, that’s it!
…
Today’s effort amounts to 3,676 words, for a total, so far, of 72,594.
A single event driven by fate, after Ben told his wife Charlotte he would be late home one night, he left early, and by chance discovers his wife having dinner in their favourite restaurant with another man.
A single event where it could be said Ben was in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Who was this man? Why was she having dinner with him?
A simple truth to explain the single event was all Ben required. Instead, Charlotte told him a lie.
A single event that forces Ben to question everything he thought he knew about his wife, and the people who are around her.
After a near-death experience and forced retirement into a world he is unfamiliar with, Ben finds himself once again drawn back into that life of lies, violence, and intrigue.
From London to a small village in Tuscany, little by little Ben discovers who the woman he married is, and the real reason why fate had brought them together.
When it came to holidays, I preferred to get as far away from everyone as possible.
I saw my parents, and sister who lived with them, every week on Sunday, for lunch and cross-examination of why I was not married with children yet.
Explaining I was only 27 was not a reason because, “your brother married at 21 and he’s got three children, a great job, his own house..” and in and on it went.
And I saw my brother every other Saturday just to tell him that I was Ok. He was considerate in one sense, it was just the matchmaking wife always inviting what she considered suitable women for me.
That fortnight off work was an oasis in a desert full of well-meaning people.
I’d tried dating several girls at work, but they never got past the family inquisition. If I had been in their shoes I’d just say it was all too much too. The lesson I learned there was to never take a girlfriend home.
But, for now, I was footloose and fancy-free. The most recent girl I’d met had decided to return home, no it was nothing I’d done wrong, but I guess it was. Perhaps asking to go with me to Hawaii was a bit too forward too soon. Another lesson learned.
I think I’d probably get it right by the time I was fifty.
So here I was, a history buff, looking to further my knowledge of the events surrounding Pearl Harbour. I’d read a great many history books on the subject, and now, it was a matter of going there, and getting a feel for the place.
More than once I had lamented the fact I could not go back in time and live through the event. I had mentioned this once to a friend, and he asked if I was stark staring mad.
Of course, he was right. Who would want to be in the middle of such a violent attack, especially when it came largely by surprise?
Since my work required mt to fly a lot I had sufficient frequent flyer points to upgrade to first class. I was hoping after flying coach for so long, I’d notice the difference.
Certainly, the initial service after being shown my seat, and the champagne soon after as a welcome onboard, set the tone.
When the door closed, and everyone was on board, only half the seats in first class were taken. A glance at those who were fellow travelers showed an interesting cross-section. A husband and wife who definitely upgraded from coach like me, but were a little m less refined. An executive and his personal assistant, who, judging by the way she looked after him, there was more to that relationship, a woman in her sixties, definitely born to money, and casting somewhat distasteful stares at the upgrade couple, and a woman about my age, who looked very unhappy.
I managed to fit in another glass of champagne before the plane reached the runway.
Then, with a roar of the engines, we were off.
Halfway through the 13-hour flight, I found it impossible to sleep, even with the luxury first-class provided me. I just couldn’t sleep on planes. Instead, I sat up, found a book of crosswords, one of three or four I always had with me and usually got to solve one or two puzzles.
It was quiet and still except for the noise of the air rushing past outside the plane. In that almost soundless atmosphere, I thought I could detect any changes in engine speed or the gentle movement of a change of course. The ride was quite smooth, except for some turbulence and the pilot took us up another 2,000 feet to escape it. We’d been slowly coming back down over the last hour. I’d been monitoring it on the flight path screen. It might be a larger screen, but watching movies was, to me, boring, except in a cinema.
“Can’t sleep either?”
It was the soft voice of the girl from two seats across. She had several revolutions of the plane, exercising I heard her explain to the cabin crew because she couldn’t sit down for long periods.
“Not on planes, no. Trains, yes, ships yes.”
“Crossword fanatic?”
I saw her glance down towards the book. “Not really. This has been floating around for about 10 years, and I drag it out as a last resort.”
“I try reading. It doesn’t help. Where are you going, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“Oahu. Doing the whole Pearl Harbor history experience. And just laze around for a few days before going back to work.”
“New York?”
“Yonkers, upstate. Are you from New York?”
“My family is. I work in San Francisco, come over once a year, but this year I got sick of them early, so I just jumped on the first plane out that had a first-class berth. It was this one. I’ll let you get back to your crossword.”
I was going to say it wasn’t a problem, but she had gone back to her seat. A moment later our cabin attendant, Lucy, came over to deliver a glass of champagne, then came over to me. I hadn’t seen the second glass on the tray. “Miranda thought you might like a glass too.”
I looked over to nod a thankyou, but she was looking out the window. There wasn’t much to see as it was dark and most of the passengers had the shades down.
Then, just as Lucy turned to leave, the plane hit more turbulence. A second, maybe two, later the seatbelt sign went on, just as the co-pilot came on the speaker system to advise all cabin crew to sit down and belt up.
A minute later what sounded like a large bang, one I would have said was an engine exploding, made everyone jump in their seats, to be quickly followed by a sudden jerk to the right that was almost instantly corrected, but that was not the worst of it, equally suddenly the plane started to descend. Very quickly.
At the same moment, the masks dropped down from overhead, I grabbed it and fumbled putting it on, realizing that panic was setting in. It took a minute, but then it didn’t seem like there was any air flowing through it.
Not that any of that mattered. Starved of oxygen, I could feel myself losing consciousness. A minute or so later, I think the plane had started to level off, and a look at the flight path showed we were down to 10,000 feet, in the middle of the ocean. My last thought, how long we would survive if we ditched.
I felt a hand on my shoulder shaking me.
“Sir, sir, are you alright?”
I opened my eyes and blinked several times. I had to be in the middle of a nightmare.
The first thing I noticed was the engine noise, it was very loud, the loudness that came from propeller engines. The second, I was no longer on an Airbus A330. This was more like a Boeing 314, a flying boat. The third, the man shaking me awake was a steward in a white coat, with PanAm on it.
Where the hell was I. No, when the hell was I. What the hell had happened?
“Sir, there’s a message for you.” He handed me a folded sheet of paper. “The captain asked me to tell you we’ll be landing in an hour, and that you, we all, should be prepared. It’s a mess.”
“What is?”
“Pearl Harbour. It was attacked yesterday morning by the Japs. Bastards came in and practically blew everything up.”
All of a sudden there was a roaring sound outside the plane, followed by what had to be the chatter of a machine gun, followed by the sound of bullets hitting the fuselage. One minute the steward was standing next to me, the next he was a bloody heap on the floor. Above my head was a line of bullet holes. More machine gun chatter, then an explosion, followed by a cry behind me of, “got the zero.”
I got out of the seat and went to the steward, staring at me with lifeless eyes. A quick check for a pulse told me he was dead. When I looked behind me there were a dozen or so military men, army, and navy. Two sailors came up and gently maneuvered the steward towards the rear of the aircraft. He had been the only casualty. Turning back towards my seat I caught a reflection of myself in the window, that of a Lieutenant in the Navy. How, and why was I here, now?
I remembered the note the steward had given me, sat down, and unfolded it.
The receipt date was 3:00 pm on 8th December 1941. It was addressed to me, that is, a man with my exact name. Orders to report to an Admiral who would reassign me, the ship I was being sent to had been sunk, and likely not to see service again.
We’d been in the air at the time of the attack, and I guessed news would have been sent to the plane, just in case it was not safe to land. Perhaps they hadn’t counted on try Japanese Zero fighters hanging around for just such a flight as ours.
Whatever the reason I was here, however it had happened, I would have to make the most of it.
Only then did I remember what I had once said, ‘if only I could go back’.
Once again I felt a hand on my shoulder, and a voice, this time of a woman, gently shaking me awake.
“We’re arriving in Honolulu in about 40 minutes. You need to prepare for landing.”
At the same time, I heard a change in the engines as we began to descend. I looked around. More familiar surroundings, back on the A330, the quiet hum of jet engines, and the sight of familiar faces.
“Did something happen to the plane or was I imagining it?”
“Just a lightning strike. We had to go down for a bit, but these planes are designed to handle just about anything. You slept through it, the best thing to do in situations like that.”
OK. It had to be a dream. That’s all I could put it down to. Except for one small detail. My grandfather’s name was the same as mine, he was in the Navy during World War 2, and he had been sent out to Pearl Harbour and was en-route when it happened. But there was only one slight difference. He had been killed when the lone zero had struck, not the steward.
I know it’s premature, but I have begin thinking about the next adventure Jack is to embark on.
Six months down the track, the relationship with Rosalie founders, he is looking for something, anything, to lift him out of the sea of self pity.
Is it a case of ‘be careful what you wish for’.
It’s a hell of a title for the story, too.
Maryanne is going to come out of left field and drag him down the rabbit hole of adventure because her latest assignment, and the one that will eventually determine whether she stays or goes, requires a boyfriend as cover.
How is she going to convince Jack? Well, I’m glad you asked, that’s a very interesting story.
…
Back in the other story, the one that should be finished but isn’t….
Jack finds himself in the seedier part of London looking for McCallister and Jacob, and finds more than he bargained for.
Yes, that blockbuster cinematic ending I’ve been promising…
…
Today’s effort amounts to 2,587 words, for a total, so far, of 68,918.
How often do we make a judgment call simply on what we see?
I knew what I saw, and it looked exactly like a situation that, if you asked any ten others who witnessed it, they would agree with me.
And then there would always be one that wouldn’t.
The prosecution had made a very good case, the defense counsel had woven a brilliant tale from start to finish, and he delivered in an almost persuading tone, with the subliminal message, the defendant was not guilty.
I felt sorry for the prosecution because his delivery had been halting, filled with ums and ers and in the end, everyone, from the judge down, wanted it to end.
As for the jury, it was an odd assortment of characters, a lawyer, a builder, a plumber, a housewife, two sales staff, two clerks, a janitor, two retirees, and a motor mechanic. I thought it would be the lawyer who would be the problem.
The trial had lasted 22 days, and over that time I noticed that groups would form, and discuss aspects of the case, each of the groups forming a different opinion. Sometimes, the dynamics of the groups changed as more evidence and testimony was revealed.
But, I think on those first few days, opinions were made, and judgment was passed.
In my opinion, based on looking at the defendant, it could be said that she didn’t look like a murderer, nor did she seem capable of committing such a heinous act. Having said that, as a throwaway first assumption, the lawyer nixed it in a second. Knowing something of how these trials worked, he said there would have been a lot of careful grooming, dress down, but not to drab, look demure, not aggressive, and speak in a modulated tone, like everyday conversation.
In other words, he was basically telling us she was giving an academy award performance.
I certainly looked at her in a different light after that, but the fact remained, for some of us, that initial assessment said not guilty.
A few days before we had to deliberate, a very damning piece of video was tendered and we all watched as the defendant was shown talking to her alleged accomplice, the victim’s current girlfriend, and passing an enveloped which the defense claimed was the payoff for helping her dispose of her husband.
It seemed odd to me that someone had known she would be in that bar, perfectly placed under the CCTV camera, both women so easily recognizable. Of course, the woman in question could not be found, and the inference was that she might also be one of the defendant’s victims.
Several people were called by the defense to assert a line of defense that the husband was a cruel man, who had treated his wife very badly indeed, to the extent her best friend remarked that she had turned up for work on several occasions with the results of what looked like a beating, and another, an ER nurse, had confirmed the defendant had visited the hospital on several occasions with lacerations consistent with what was considered spousal abuse.
Those photographs were quite confronting, but a question had to be asked, why had she not gone to the police with that evidence and let them deal with the husband.
The fact she hadn’t was one weakness in her defense. The thing there was why the defense introduced such testimony because, to me, it confused the issue by pushing the jury into thinking she had killed him, but in mitigating circumstances. Was she looking for a verdict of justifiable homicide?
From day two, after the lawyer had told us about how lawyers schooled their clients, I watched her carefully, when sitting beside her lawyer, or when on the stand. There were interesting actions she made when certain events occurred, like brushing a stray lock of hair back behind her ear, like teasing it out with a slight shake of the head, in a subtle but obvious show of displeasure. Like smoothing out the invisible wrinkles in her clothes, perfectly fitting and obviously made for her, but understated in a sense that she would stand out in a crown but not ostentatiously so. It was almost a ritual when she came in at the start, and when she took the stand, preparing herself.
Perfectionist, maybe. Or trying to convey a certain picture. Certainly, in the early days before the trial began, the media had a field day with the case, whipped into an even bigger frenzy when the police finally arrested the wife for the murder of her husband. Almost all of them said he had it coming, with page after page of revelations about a man who could not have done half the things he was accused of.
The trial by newspaper done, I suspect it was hard to find 12 unbiased men and women who could be trusted to make the right decision. I knew 100 would be jurors had been called up.
Now, in the jury room for the third day, trying to reach a verdict, it was the lawyer trying to wrap it up. He had a job to go back to. So did everyone else, for that matter.
“So, in essence, we are all agreed, that she is not guilty.”
It had been an interesting change in his position on the morning of day three of our deliberation. Before that, he wanted to hang her from the nearest yardarm. Interestingly enough, that morning, after he had given us his reasons for changing his mind, it would have been unanimous, and over.
The thing is, I didn’t like the way he changed sides so easily or for the reasons he spoke of.
So, in that vote, I changed my decision to guilty, and watch a group of people who had been friendly suddenly become enemies.
But at that moment, that other ten didn’t interest me, it was the expression on the lawyer’s face. He hadn’t expected the vote to go that way. It was like he had been goading everyone into voting not guilty and weathering the storm because of his stance. Had it been staged, had we been led down this path, and then all of a sudden, the verdict he wanted being reached?
I had to find out.
I watched the eleven raise their hands to vote not guilty. I did not. And immediately felt the looks of every one of those eleven on me.
“Why?” he asked.
By this time he had taken the lead, and the others had let him. Now I suspect they would let him do the talking.
“You’ve got it all wrong. The reasons are the same. There are two sides to that tale you came up with this morning. The problem I have is from being adamant she was guilty, and as you said, without a shadow of a doubt, now all of a sudden you’re having doubts.”
“So, you don’t think she’s guilty, you’re just voting that way because you suspect my motives?”
“What I think is irrelevant right now. You need to convince me that you truly think she’s not guilty. What is it you saw, or heard, or know that changed your mind. It certainly had nothing to do with that so-called video in the bar being staged. It has nothing to do with the fact they can’t find that woman so they can either verify or dispel the accusations being made she was an accomplice. It had nothing to do with the fact you think she might have been goaded into it and was left with no other option. In that case, it might well be a case of manslaughter rather than murder. Is that what you’re trying to suggest?”
“I think given the evidence, or lack of concrete evidence against her, she is not guilty.”
“But given everything you have said, it seems to me you think she had some crime to answer for.”
“Hasn’t she suffered enough?”
“That might well be the case, but it doesn’t give you an excuse to murder., and there’s certainly no forensic evidence that she was defending herself against an attack at the time. She should have taken her case to the police and have it investigated. She chose not to, for reasons that were never fully explained.”
“And didn’t we hear that the husband had links to various police that might have made such an investigation a waste of time. This was a woman trapped in a bad situation with no way out.”
It was a long way from where we, as jurors, were at the beginning of our deliberations. The first vote at the end of the first day was four voted not guilty and eight voted guilty. In the following days, a lot of arguments changed the decisions of those seven to vote not guilty, when they believed, in their own minds the defendant was guilty.
In my mind, the first instinct was usually correct. Over time that decision was only changed because of expediency, not necessarily for the right reasons. My first instinct was that she was, in fact, not guilty for all the reasons the lawyer cited.
“Look,” he said. “We’ve been here for three days. It’s an open and shut case. Let’s vote.”
We did with the same result. Eleven for not guilty and one against.
A hung jury. I wasn’t going to be moved on my position, and so it went back to the court. It was declared a mistrial and the defendant was returned to custody and a new trial was to be scheduled.
I was reading the paper’s version of events, and speculation on the result. Several of the jurors had featured in the discussion, but none were willing to talk about the result or who was responsible for the hung jury, only that one juror had not agreed with the majority. In some states, it was argued, it only required a majority, but in this and other states, quite rightly, it needed a unanimous decision to confer the death sentence.
Justice, it seemed to the writer of the piece, had prevailed.
They also believed that the plight of women trapped in marriages to violent men was a matter that should be looked at and that such women should be treated better in the eyes of the law. It was not a position that I disagreed with. What I disagreed with was the notion of jury tampering.
It was, apparently, the fifth time that a case such as this had a similar track record, that the deliberations of the jury had swung from an initial guilty verdict to not guilty at the hands of a single juror. In each of the five cases, the circumstances were similar, the wife had endured violence by her husband, and then, in odd circumstances, the husband had finished up dead.
Someone had discerned a pattern, and this had been a test case. In each of the other four cases, a not guilty verdict had been handed down by a jury that had also started with a majority guilty verdict, only to be worn down by a single juror with an agenda. To get the defendant a not guilty verdict.
My job was to find out which juror it was that was there to change minds. Then it was a case of finding links between him and four other jurors who were equally instrumental in obtaining a not guilty verdict. In each of the five cases, there was irrefutable evidence that the defendant was, in fact, guilty of the charge, and the expectation was the legal system would prosecute them.
And then, in each of the cases, a weak prosecutor was selected, and a particular juror was selected by that prosecutor. From there, the trail led back to a particular assistant District Attorney who had overseen each of the five cases. The fact was, justice was not served, and four out of the five defendants had escaped justice.
Whilst it seems that it’s highly possible to write 50,000 words in 30 days, it’s not necessarily as easy to write a whole book.
Well, at least for some of us.
If the book is going to be about 50,000 words, which you have planned, then I guess it’s possible. It might end up having about 70 to 90,000 words, and be edited back to 50,000, but in the interim, this story is not going to end at the prescribed time.
Of course, that might not be the outcome I had at the start of the project, but that doesn’t mean that I’m not chuffed that nearly all of it is done.
There’s two days to go, it’s not going to finish, but I will have a good idea where it’s going.
However, right at this very minute, I’m not sure how it is going to end, good or bad, for some of the characters.
…
Today’s effort amounts to 1,988 words, for a total, so far, of 66,331.
I hated it when I was younger, namely because my brothers always cheated, and that had been carried through to adulthood.
Now, I just avoided them.
It left me wondering how I managed to paint myself into a corner, and agree to do the one thing I assiduously avoided.
You could chalk it up to being persuaded by a pretty girl. Yes, I am the typical male, a sucker for a pretty face and a little flattery.
It would not have happened if I’d just gone home, instead of being asked to go and ‘just have one drink’ on the way home from work. I used to, once upon a time, before I got sick. But, perhaps it was a combination of cabin fever, and the monastic existence I’d adopted since that saw the one visit a chink of light at the end of a very long tunnel.
Whatever the reason, had I not gone, I would not have met Nancy. I’d seen her before, off and on, at work, and had noted, probably with a degree of disdain that where she was, was the most noise. You know, the one who talks loudest in the elevator, or the one who was the center of attention at a dining table.
And yet, underneath that, if or when anyone got close enough, there was something else. Something that fascinated me. But, having become reclusive had made me more reticent, and even though I was sitting at the same table, almost within arm’s length, I was too shy to strike up a conversation.
Until it was time to go home. I had moved out of the way so she could get out, and as she passed me she said, “You’ve been very quiet, Brian isn’t it?”
“Yes. And I know it’s rather lame but I don’t have as extensive knowledge of sports, which I guess I should. Ask me about old movies, and I’m your guy. Anyway, I pride myself on being a good listener.”
“Old movies eh. I’ll keep that in mind.” A smile, she went to leave, and then turned. “Look. I have this thing I have to go to, and I don’t want to go by myself. It’s not a date or anything like that, I just need someone to come with me. You might even find the people interesting.”
“I’m sure there’s someone else here more qualified than I am.” It was lame and I was floundering. It was not every day a girl asks you to go out with her. Even if it was, to a certain degree, and unflattering invitation.
“They all seem to have something else to do. Look, here’s my phone number,” she handed me a piece of paper with her cell number scrawled on it, “Call me if you change your mind. It’s not going to be as bad as you think.”
I should not have picked up the phone. I definitely should not have called her number. And I knew I was going to live to regret telling her I would go to her ‘thing’.
Before I walked out the door I looked at myself in the mirror. It seemed to be telling me, ‘you are a fool, Brian’, and I agreed. This had disaster written all over it. I hadn’t been out for a long time, and if anything, those few hours last evening were a sign I was not ready to face the world. Not after being so long away from it.
A lot had changed in the fifteen months I’d been in a coma. It was a miracle, the doctors said, that I came out of it with very little damage. I’d lost a chunk of memories, particularly surrounding the accident, and perhaps, I’d been told, that was a good thing. Cameron, the guy I worked with had summed up the change in a few short words, ‘you’ve gone from being the biggest dead shit in the world to something that resembles a human being’. I didn’t remember that person, though others did.
Maybe she remembered who I was, and, if she did, that didn’t explain why she asked me. The person Cameron described was not a person I would want to be with, so I guess the answer to my rhetorical question would soon be revealed.
Nancy was bright, talkative, and, at times, over the top. She was the loudest in the room and the center of attention. I wondered if the old Brian had been like that because if he was, I wouldn’t like him. It begged the question, why did I agree to go with her?
Curiosity? Maybe. That I might find some people who knew the old Brian? I certainly hoped not.
I had barely got out of the car to go and knock on her door when she came out, a small gym bag on her shoulder, dressed casually. I had to admit, in the morning sun and surrounded by an idyllic setting, she looked almost like an angel. She jumped in the car and all but slammed the door shut.
“You’re early.”
I looked at my watch, then the clock on the car’s dash. Both said the same, Eight a.m. exactly. “You did say eight a.m. and not p.m.” I couldn’t remember what she said, not right then.
“I mean most guys who come to collect me are always late.”
“Then I guess, by inference, I not like most guys.”
She smiled, one of those impish smiles I’d come to recognize from anther woman I’d dated somewhere in a distinct past, and who was trouble. I did, for some strange remember the night we spent in jail, though I couldn’t remember why, except the impish smile.
“I suspect you’re not. Cam said you were different.”
“Cam did, did he?” The mentioning of his name raised a red flag in the back of my mind. Cameron was not above playing complex pranks and I was beginning to see indications that this might be one. I would have to be careful.
“Not in a bad way, I mean. He had nothing but good things to say about you, though I had the feeling there was something he wasn’t saying. You’re not an ax murderer or anything like that?”
“Shouldn’t you have done some more research before asking me along?” I had also heard from another source, actually, a chap named, rather aptly, Jones, who was also at the party. He had left earlier but was still in the carpark, apparently his car parked next to mine, smoking a cigarette. A suspicious man might say he was waiting for me.
He had some ‘sage’ advice. “You want to be careful when you’re with Nancy. She’s not what she seems.”
I asked him to elucidate, but, cigarette finished, he stubbed it out rather violently under his blood, and left. He looked angry, sounded angry, and it was an angry warning. Perhaps he was a current or, more likely, ex-boyfriend. That ‘advice’ only added to the intrigue value.
Someone else, when he asked them about Nancy, had told him she was ‘brilliant’ with computers. Was that in programming, or hacking, or simply data entry? He only knew she had helped the web site programmers when the company had built its intranet. Computers and I never got on, and I was the only one who got a weekly visit from the IT help desk, just in case.
“I did. Do you remember anything from those fifteen months?”
“Like what?”
“They say that when you’re in a coma you can still hear people, you know, that sort of stuff.”
I thought about it for a minute. I wasn’t one of those lucky ones, though I did have one of those out of body experiences, where I suspect I’d nearly died. Just not my time, I’d thought, later.
“I’d like to meet the people who have that ubiquitous title of ‘they’. They have a lot of opinions, most of which are about the unknown.”
“So would I, to be honest. All you ever get to do is read about them. So, are you ready?”
“For what?”
“A weekend away. It will be fun if you want it to be.”
“Otherwise?”
“It’ll be fun. You have my promise.”
“And where is this ‘fun’ going to be?”
“Rhode Island. A friend of my parents, son is having a party and a few side events. There’s about 40 of us, so there’s no shortage of interesting if sometimes eclectic people. I’ll put the address in the GPS.”
Rhode Island, the other home of the New York rich, as well as others, and I hoped it was the others we were going to see. The host was the son of possible millionaires, so that was an interesting description for me to mull on. Would he be an ex? It seemed to me that Rhode Islanders would be less likely to mingle with the paupers, and if they did it would be for their own amusement.
There was a memory on the back of his mind, that popped up, albeit briefly when she mentioned the destination. The fact it didn’t want to come to the surface told me it was a bad memory. One from ‘old’ Brians days.
Nancy’s beauty, manner, and the fact she was clever might just win over the son of a millionaire, an heir to a fortune, whereas it would intimidate a lesser man. As for me, I was a means to an end, so it didn’t matter what I thought, other than it was better than staying home.
It was the house with all the cars parked out front. Multi stories, with towers that no doubt overlooked the ocean, and extensive gardens that seemed to be shared, that blocked the sightlines from the street front to that invisible ocean. I was will to be, once on the other side, the never-ending sound of the sea might be heard.
In winter, this would be bleak. In summer, well, what was the saying, anyone who is anyone would be here. Well, the sons and daughter thereof, perhaps.
I had expected the moment I parked the car she would be out, and gone, like a proverbial schoolgirl dying to get back to school after the holidays. She was not. She stood there, at the front of the car, and looked at the scene before us. To me, it was just a building, with trees, shrubs, and grass around it. To others, it was a portal into another world, one that would never be available to that 95% of the rest of the world. It was a phrase that popped into my mind, again, randomly, that said, the top 5% of any country held as much if not more of the wealth belongs to the other 95%.
I came up beside her and looked in the same direction, at one of the towers.
“Having a Rapunzel moment?” I hoped she had some memory of fairytales or it would seem an odd comment.
“I used to have long hair once. But, the last time I was here, I can’t remember. My mother’s hair was always long, some sort of hangover from hippy days, you know, the 1970s. She was here once. The stories she used to tell me about the houses, and the people she used to know. I’m ready. Are you?”
It was like a walk through the park, getting to the front door. There was a driveway, but there must have been a rule, no cars on the property. Or perhaps the front gate was locked and the owner had thrown away the key.
Or, more than likely, the butler, standing at the front door, welcoming guests, had it in his pocket. He was a tall, severe-looking man, with a military bearing. I somehow knew he was more than just the average butler.
Nancy gave him our names, and in return, he gave us a sheet of paper. The rules and the room number where we would be staying the night. I had thought that we would be given separate rooms, but that wasn’t the case, and it didn’t seem to worry Nancy that I would be staying with her. The only other words he said were, “The rotunda, 11 a.m.”
The room overlooked the ocean, today more or less a millpond, and a number of yachts were out making the most of the weather. There was a pier at the end of the property, and, yes, a reasonably large boat attached to it. There was also a view of a croquet lawn, the rotunda beside the rose garden. On the other side was a large pond, and seats where, no doubt on days when people like us were impinging on their solitude, they sat and contemplated how to make more money.
I didn’t realize I was that cynical.
The room had two beds, and it’s own bathroom. She had thrown her bag on one, checked out the bathroom, then dashed past saying, “I’ll see you at the rotunda.”
I followed her down about a half-hour later, descending the stairs at a more leisurely pace, looking at the paintings on the wall as I did. Forbears, and landscapes that were from around here. The one with the lighthouse was of particular interest. It brought another memory to the surface. I’d been there before, sometime in the distant past, and it was significant.
The Butler was standing at the bottom of the stairs, having stopped there when he saw me descending.
“It’s nice to see you again, Master Brian.”
“Not Master Brian, anymore, Jeffery. Sadly, I had to grow up.”
“We all do, sooner or later. Pity we can’t say the same for Chester.”
“Where is he?”
“You need to ask. I hope you’re up for a little X marks the spot.”
I groaned. Chester and his treasure hunts.
My last memory of that he had hidden a fluffy bunny stuffed with money. It was the weekend I had the crash the result I was told of too much booze, too much alcohol, too much of everything. I was just glad the girl I had brought up with me had left with another chap, a decision, I told her when she visited me in hospital, was probably the wisest thing she would ever do.
I just shook my head.
“Even if you don’t think so Brian, we have missed you.”
Another look around, I sighed, then went outside. My doctor had been right. Coming back had stirred up the mush in my brain, those thoughts, feelings, and memories of who I was, and what I was. And who I would never be again.
Nancy was waiting by the rotunda, talking to a more youthful version of myself, Chester. It was an awful name, one that our mother must have come up with in one of her drug-fuelled dreams, and he had taken a ribbing at school, and a willing participant in many a fight.
Chester looked surprised to see me, no, that wasn’t surprise, but shock.
“I thought you said you would never come back.”
Nancy looked from him, then to me, then back again.
“I’m not here, Chester. It’s just Nancy and Brian, here for the treasure hunt. And this time there better be more than a hundred dollars in that stuffed animal.”
Chester looked confused for a moment, then smiled he brand of childish smile, that of a child that would probably never grow up, the result of what I did to him, and would spend the rest of my life trying to earn forgiveness for.
“OK.”
“What was that about?” she asked.
“Long story. Remind me to tell you one day, if you stick around that long.”
In the background, I could hear Jeffery calling the treasure hunt participants together.
Thrills, Spills, and just a dash of Romance 